Song Hereafter

by Jean Gill

  No doubt there were many daily chores which he would notice only if they were not carried out, as with military campaigns. He did know that no comfort was lacking: clothes and household linen smelled of dried rose petals; salt was whitened; candles down to the wick made a miraculous recovery from one night to the next. All due to Estela’s household management.

  He rushed upstairs to the living rooms and paused in the doorway to appreciate the vision of domesticity. Estela was sitting with her back to him, bent in thought over her escritoire. Her slender neck was bare, asking to be kissed. In all chivalry how could he refuse such a demand? He pressed his lips to the warm skin, enjoyed the scent of roses.

  She turned her face towards him and he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. Grieving for de Rançon again. He said what was expected but his heart withdrew. ‘You are sad, my Lady?’

  ‘I don’t want to count to four,’ she said, still controlling a sob.

  Was this better or worse than grieving for de Rançon? He didn’t know yet! ‘Is there any reason why you should?’

  ‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘If you should ask it of me.’

  ‘Then you need not cry for I shan’t ask it of you.’ He was completely at a loss.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘No, I don’t. Explain it to me.’

  ‘Petronilla and her ladies... we hear and discuss Goodness and how we should behave. We hear stories that help us to be better women. There was the tale of the wife who tittle-tattled about her husband’s business and he lost everything because of her loose words.’ She ticked off the stories on her fingers. ‘Then the one about the wife who tested her husband’s love by killing his dog and apologising, to see whether she would get away with having a lover. That did not end well.’

  The third finger was held up. ‘And then there was the wife who jumped over the stick when her husband told her to, three times, and each time she said but one word, ‘Willingly’... so his friend wished to prove that his wife was equally loyal only that wife grew angry and of course her husband lost both the wager and his honour – you would not want to hear that one!’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any of them,’ Dragonetz laughed, snatching at her hand and curling it up under his kisses. ‘But how has this sermonising made you cry and what has it to do with counting to four?’

  ‘Obedience.’ Estela regarded him earnestly, her golden eyes, still wet with tears. ‘A good wife is obedient without question. And all the men trusted their wives to show their goodness.’

  ‘Estela, what men? What did the wives have to do?’

  ‘The men were sure that their wives were good and they were provoked by an unmarried friend who said, ‘Let each man ask his wife to count to four, slowly and without mockery, and should all the wives do so, I will acknowledge you the happiest of men and pay for our weekly meal together; should any wife not do so or show her displeasure, then that man shall pay for all.’ The men were so confident in their wives that they accepted the bet. Three of the wives were full of pride and on the second or third time of counting, they said instead, ‘One, two, thirteen’ or ‘What nonsense is this’ and their husbands lost the bet and were ridiculed. The story finished with the words that all those with well brought-up wives were contented, won the wager, and were happy ever after.

  I don’t want to let you down.’ She frowned, her eyes on his, guileless. ‘But I don’t want to be made to do stupid things.’

  ‘Sweetheart! These tales have nothing to do with us. I won’t ask you to count to four! Or make bets on your obedience – I’d lose.’

  She took a moment to realise he was teasing her and then she smiled weakly.

  He took her hand. ‘You’re a troubadour. A physician. A special woman. And mine. We’ll make our own rules.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like, being told all the time what a woman should do,’ she murmured, held against his chest.

  THE CITRON TREE (BONTZIDERBAUM), on which the great citron grows, is more hot than cold. It signifies chastity. A person who has daily fevers should cook the leaves of this tree in wine, strain the wine through a cloth, and drink it often, and he will be cured. The fruits of this tree, when eaten, also check fever in a person.

  Estela paused in copying from the Physica, then dipped her quill again in the inkwell. She had a few observations of her own to add.

  When pruning the tree or harvesting leaves or fruit, a wise man wears gloves or risks pustules of the skin. The leaves of this tree transfer their heat when touched and the unfortunate recipient will manifest skin burns when the greater heat of the sun in the sky draws the stored heat to the surface.

  She could think of somebody who would benefit from a reminder that chastity was a virtue and a lemon tree would be the perfect gift for such a man. An anonymous gift. Left by the confessional box with his name on it. Estela dotted the point with satisfaction and jumped when Dragonetz kissed the top of her head. She had not heard him come in, so engrossed in her work had she been.

  Musca was clearly used to his mother’s abstraction and was talking to himself with one shoe on each hand. On closer inspection, the shoes were talking to each other, via Musca.

  Dragonetz ignored his son. ‘Is that von Bingen?’ he asked, reading over Estela’s shoulder.

  ‘And my own work,’ she told him, ‘learned the hard way.’

  The shoes paused in their conversation as Musca realised that his father was in the room. A grin split his face and he scrambled to his feet, dropped the shoes and picked up one of his toys.

  ‘Teefs!’ shouted Musca as he charged at his father, spiking him with a wooden sword.

  ‘Teefs?’ queried Dragonetz, holding his offspring at a safe distance while the toddler swung his blade wildly.

  Estela shrugged, equally at a loss.

  Dragonetz turned his little boy, so they faced the world together. He placed his own hand over the tiny one so that they could control the sword together, thrust and parry.

  ‘Teefs!’ yelled Musca.

  ‘Teefs!’ agreed Dragonetz.

  The game was progressing well until another player joined them. Attracted by the noise, their great white guardian bounded into the room and stopped, confused as to who was in danger from whom. Another whoop and thrust decided him. He took a stance between Estela and the wooden sword and growled a warning.

  ‘Teefs!’ observed Musca gleefully, pointing his sword at two sharp white rows of them.

  Estela soothed Nici. ‘Enough teefs,’ she told them, reaching for the sword. Musca’s bottom lip trembled but he knew his mother well enough to hand over his precious weapon.

  He’d grown up with his nurse’s child and knew what was fair, so he turned to his father and held out his hand. ‘Acan’, he demanded and pointed at Dragonetz’ swordbelt. There was no mistaking his meaning.

  ‘Once again you disarm me, my Lady.’ His eyes held hers as he unbuckled ‘Acan’ and passed her the sword, to his son’s approval. ‘You always will.’ He kissed the hand that took the sword, under Nici’s watchful eye.

  ‘He’s named his sword.’ Estela pointed out with pride.

  ‘Of course. And it bites!’

  ‘He needs a little tuition, I think.’

  ‘And one day he will surpass us both. Our son,’ Dragonetz said softly.

  ‘Our son.’ Some words expressed fulfilment.

  IN THE END, IT WAS not tears and grieving but their closeness that made the difference. As Estela lay half-asleep in his arms, the desire to share his burden breached every wall of Dragonetz’ spirit. He flung himself out of bed, dressed as if each item of clothing was an armed foe.

  Estela lay half-raised on one elbow, her hair a cascade of black covering her nakedness. The scar on her shoulder was visible through the silken strands. Her lover didn’t need to see her body to know it, eyes shut, every dune and dimple.

  There was no easy way to say this. Dragonetz stood, statue-still, on guard. ‘I have been putting off telling y
ou, Estela. I didn’t want to spoil this precious time together, and nobody could love you more than I do.’

  ‘But?’ She pulled the blanket round her, clasped hands around the huddle of her knees and waited, watchful.

  ‘Ramon Berenguer has given me permission to go on pilgrimage and now I seek yours.’

  Her eyes, golden and wary, measured him. ‘You’re not suffering the cravings again without telling me?’

  It would have been easy to say ‘Yes,’ to give her a reason for his pilgrimage that she could understand. What was one more lie, in order to protect her from the knowledge he withheld?

  ‘No,’ he said, drawing a line. ‘I have put the poppy behind me.’

  ‘Then why?’ No emotion.

  Why indeed? ‘I have things on my conscience. I need to earn forgiveness.’

  ‘Things you don’t want to talk to me about.’ The same colourless tones.

  ‘I’m a knight. There are always matters of conscience.’ The evasion lay heavy between them.

  ‘I would not stand in my Lord’s way in matters of conscience. Rome? Jerusalem?’ To one who knew her as he did, her voice betrayed a slight quiver at the mention of a place where she’d rescued him from the poppy. And had brought Geoffroi de Rançon with her. His resolve hardened.

  ‘The Camino de Santiago.’

  ‘A year then.’ There was no need to answer. They both knew that the pilgrim’s way across northern Hispania would take a year’s walking. And pilgrims walked.

  ‘In sackcloth and ashes?’

  He couldn’t help the gesture of impatience. ‘Of course not!’

  ‘There is no ‘of course’ to me about this – this plan of yours!’ Her mask slipped a little but he had taught her well. She could control her breathing and her voice for the most complex of tensos, taking both voices in such a song if she chose. Show anger or flirt, to order. She’d had months in Petronilla’s court to perfect her self-control.

  Dragonetz took a deep breath. ‘I have your blessing?

  ‘I shall pray for you, my Lord.’ Her eyes never left his but she had wiped all accusation from them and her tone was meek. Horrible beyond all his worst fears.

  ‘God’s breath, Estela! I don’t want you to be a goodwife!’

  They both ignored his curse.

  ‘If you must be a pilgrim then you make a goodwife of me,’ she returned, preternaturally calm. ‘Your household will accompany the Queen to Zaragoza for the summer and stay there to await your return. If it please my Lord, would you leave now so I may dress in private?’ She looked away, dismissing him, withdrawing as completely as if she herself were in Santiago de Compostela.

  Dragonetz left, silently condemning Geoffroi de Rançon to all the tortures of hell, but he knew he was doing the right thing. There was no need for her to be tortured by the truth, as he was. He just needed to gain the strength to hide it better from her. He would find that strength as a pilgrim.

  WHEN HE’D GONE, ESTELA dressed mechanically. She had to tie her sash three times to get it right. Then she floated through their palace, immune to all noise but the scream gathering in her head.

  She could not understand why he’d gone and she chased every possible motive. What if he’d tired of her? Maybe all she’d felt when they made love had been one-sided.

  What if he’d come to believe their love was wrong, as so many around them thought: he’d spent more time with Ramon than she had with Petronilla, no doubt hearing the same sanctimonious condemnation. What if he was preparing to leave her, for his soul’s sake. Should she be glad for him?

  What if the Templars had finally won Dragonetz and this pilgrimage was his first step towards chastity and joining the Order? She knew they’d invited her lover often enough, with bribes and promises that would make any man tempted. Any unmarried man.

  Somewhere in the corridors, Nici found her and loped along beside her. She had no idea where she was going so she followed the mocking cry of the seagulls, walking until she and her dog were alone.

  The sea stretched to the edge of the world, sparkles dancing on the waves, a reminder of how unimportant she was. Three empty rowboats were hauled up on the beach, the very image of the industrious fishermen who owned them. She took in the harmony of the scene, the music of sea and sky, the texture of the wood. Then she picked up a large rock and started smashing the nearest boat to splinters, shredding her hands without noticing. Nici whined anxiously but she ignored him. He lay down, watched over her.

  Eventually she stopped. Shivering, wet and drained, she looked at the rock in her hand, wondered what it was doing there, and carefully put it down on the sand. She fished her pouch from beneath her skirts and left coin on the planks that remained of the boat, to pay for the damage. Then she returned to her magnificent, empty home. Dragonetz had gone.

  Estela treated her abused hand with salve and frowned at the thought of being unable to write, for a couple of days at least. If this was the sign from above that she’d prayed for, she was doomed. She sat down on the floor of her lonely chamber, hugged Nici and cried.

  Chapter 5

  From the moment Dragonetz’ men received his parting orders, Estela was guarded so closely that she complained of being treated as a prisoner.

  ‘What do you think will happen?’ she rounded on Gilles, the unfortunate on duty. ‘Someone will be so inflamed at the sight of me buying ribbons that he’ll rape me on the stall? Or knife me to steal them?’

  Gilles had known his mistress since her childhood and was neither shocked nor diverted by her crudeness. ‘My Lord’s orders,’ he repeated. ‘He said he knows the city and you were taking too many risks.’ He shook his one hand at her. ‘And he was right!’

  ‘If my Lord cared he would be here, not walking hundreds of miles with only his conscience for protection! He’s more at risk than I am! If not a proper escort, at least you or Raoulf should have gone with him!’

  Gilles said nothing. He had indeed known her a long time. And she knew he would no more leave her side than would Nici if danger threatened. But there was no danger!

  During one such dispute, a messenger interrupted.

  ‘Gizlane!’ Estela recognized the girl at once.

  ‘Mistress,’ Layla’s servant curtseyed, with an ease that suggested her practice had been diligent. Despite the courtesy, her words tripped over each other. ‘Please come. It’s the master. He’s had a fever for days and the Mistress sent me to get you. To tell you to bring your medicines and that you can use the Master’s. She said you will know what to.’

  Estela’s stomach lurched. ‘Malik,’ she murmured but Gilles had already nodded, gone to get the horses saddled. She tried to get more information from Gizlane but all she could work out was that the master had a fever, after some domestic accident. He had not been attacked. It sounded trivial but Layla would not have sent for her if this was not serious.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I walked. Ran sometimes. I can go back on the wagon that came to market.’

  ‘You did well coming so quickly.’ Estela recovered her manners and rewarded the girl with some coin. The anxious expression did not change. Whenever a master or mistress was ill, the whole household felt the chill. ‘Don’t worry. Your master will get better.’ He had to.

  Estela calmed herself by reciting a litany of herbs and procedures. She changed into boots and a riding gown, picked up her medicine box, then headed for the stables. Gilles was holding two placid mares, already saddled. He boosted her up, mounted, and they set off to ride the four miles out of the city to Malik’s villa. Whatever Estela had not brought with her could be found in situ, whether books or needles. This was not how she had hoped to win some freedom.

  ESTELA BARELY PAUSED to unpack her medicine box from the saddlebag and throw the reins to a servant before she rushed into the house, sought directions and entered the chamber where Malik lay. There were so many people in the room that she could hardly see her patient and the air was stale with sweat, sicknes
s and fear. Too late to worry that Malik had something infectious!

  Barging past the huddle at the doorway, Estela used elbows and medicine box without mercy to carve a way to the bedside, muttering a dulcet-toned, ‘Excuse me,’ as she did so.

  She recognized Malik’s children and grandchildren, sobbing quietly. The others were probably neighbours, and at the front were Layla, weeping over the figure in the bed, and a man with turban and long beard, arms raised, intoning what was unmistakably a prayer. An Imam, no doubt.

  Estela fought her way to the man lying in the bed, and, more gently, reached past Layla to make a physician’s judgement. Malik grimaced as a spasm shook him, tried to speak through gritted teeth but whatever he wanted to say was unintelligible.

  Estela nodded, getting all the confirmation she needed. Only one thing spoiled the colourful emotion of this death-bed scene. The patient was still alive and, if Estela had her way, he was going to remain so. She reached for Malik’s wrist, lying limp on the bed, and felt the pulse to see how strong his heart was. Its beat was faster than it should be, but strong.

  The Imam ignored her, except for perhaps increasing the volume of his incantation. Layla wiped her face, whispered, ‘It is too late. We must let Allah’s will be done.’

  Biting back the angry words that came to mind, Estela looked instead at her mentor, hearing his words in her mind. Observe, as you and I know how to do. Tell me what you see.

  As if there were only the two of them in that room preparing for death, she touched Malik’s forehead, regardless of the gasps and disapproval in the room. ‘Clammy,’ she murmured, confirming what she’d been told, that he had a fever. But she hadn’t been told that his jaw was clenched or that his body jerked into spasm, throwing off the covers, then returned to a shuddering norm.

  Shutting out the noise, she took the chance to observe any parts of his body revealed by the thrashing movements, and she saw the minor wound on his arm. She kept the arm above the sheets as she gently protected his modesty again. ‘No sign of putrefaction,’ she murmured, frowning. ‘Healing well.’